


Then Leaf Subsides To Leaf

by MyBloodyUnicorn



Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:59:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyBloodyUnicorn/pseuds/MyBloodyUnicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Emmanuel found a name and learned how to make a girl's nethers quiver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the middle of the night, you wake up with your thighs damp and clenched together, a feeling of desperate need rousing you awake.

It takes a moment of looking around the empty bedroom to realize you were dreaming. You dreamt you were fucking the nameless stranger you brought home and it was so... _real_. You throw off the blankets and wait in the dark for your heart to stop pounding, for this insistent _need_ to just go away already. You’ve been alone for so long that the physical effects of arousal feel nearly alien to you. How long has it been anyway? Years?

When the feeling doesn’t immediately abate, you let one hand drift up and down the sensitive skin of your inner thigh—softly, hesitantly, as though approaching an animal that might bolt. Your eyes close. The dream that pushed you to the brink of orgasm is already dissolving into just a vague memory and sensations. So instead, you turn your thoughts to how you found the man earlier that day, hours ago, really. When your hand brushes softly over the dampness between your legs, you shudder.

When he walked out of the river, you saw him completely naked only for a moment or two, hard muscle on a lean frame. His smooth, damp skin, warm under your hand as you asked if he was okay. 

Your fingers find a rhythm now, rubbing a small circle through the sheer fabric of your panties, flat on your back, legs falling open under your own touch. You think about _his_ hands now, what they might feel like. _What they will feel like,_ you correct yourself, rough or fumbling or gentle. 

Your initial hesitation drains away and you hook your thumbs in the waistband of your panties jerking them down to your knees with sudden urgency. One finger slides effortlessly into your wet cunt, then a second, and you're fucking yourself gently with them while the other hand returns to the same circles over your clit, now unhampered by fabric. You turn to bury your face in a pillow, anything to mute the low guttural sounds you’re making.

Now you think about his mouth, because _fuck,_ the ridiculously full, lush mouth on him... the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he speaks. You think about that pink tongue tracing circles around your clit just the way your fingers are doing.

You can feel yourself start to unravel, your breathing shallow. Your mind races to fill in more details to push yourself over the edge — _the stubble of his chin rasping on your cunt_ — you bite down on your lip to stop yourself from crying aloud — _your hands are... your hands are in his hair, grasping, pulling_ —  your hips thrust up against your fingers — _grinding your cunt into his face and... and... and he moans_ — and you’re gasping and trembling as you come, the sensation thundering through your body until it dwindles to just a faint echo.

After a moment, you rub your wet hands along your thighs and stretch luxuriously. The last thing you think before sleep reclaims you is how glad you are that the man you brought home doesn’t have a name yet because you would have surely shouted it out loud.


	2. Chapter 2

As you reach for the coffee pot, his quiet _good morning_ gives you such a start, you knock the sugar bowl over. He’s apologizing to you for startling you while _you’re_ apologizing to _him_ for being startled... and while you’re both cleaning up the spilled sugar, his hand grazes yours. Less than a second of contact, just his fingers, skimming the surface of your skin. Your breath catches and you can feel your face growing hot.

 _Soft_ , you think. _So soft_.

“Have you remembered anything yet?” you ask, desperate to change the course of your thoughts. You sit across the small table from him, setting your mug down. “Anything at all? Your name, maybe?”

His chin drops and he shakes his head no. He looks so dispirited that without thinking, you reach over and close your hand around his wrist, thumb stroking the back of his hand and he just... _watches_ as you do so, his face inscrutable. Even when he lays his hand on top of yours, you’re still not sure what he’s thinking. Is he telling you stop? Or something else?

“Will you help me?” he asks. A feeling of _yes_ reverberates through your body like a chord being struck.

“Of course I will,” you say, the calm in your voice belying everything you feel. “Let’s find you a name.”

You open your laptop and click on the first search result for baby names. The site has at least a dozen different criteria by which you can choose names: popular, unique, old-fashioned. You look up from your screen and take a minute to examine the man sitting next to you, beyond just the way he looks. What sort of man does he seem to be? He watches you study his face a moment then his eyes drop to the table and he smiles faintly, shyly.

You start checking off the traits of a name you think would suit him. After choosing _traditional_ and _uncommon_ , you take a last look at him and pick _Biblical_ as well. It just seems to fit. When the page reloads with a short list of results, you pull your chair next to his so that you can read them together.

You immediately rule out Israel, Ezekiel, and Bartholomew. When you say _Raphael_ , something like horror flickers over his face for an instant. You don’t ask; you just rule that out as well. Melchizedek is too hard to spell. Simon is too plain.

He points to the screen. “Emmanuel,” he says quietly and looks to you for a reaction.

You repeat the name aloud and then hear yourself say it in your head: _Emmanuel, Emmanuel._  As you look at him to see if the name suits him, the pink tip of a tongue darts over his upper lip and you hear yourself again: _oh, Emmanuel, oh fuck, yes, Emmanuel._

You swallow hard and nod. “I like it.”

You find yourself taking every possible opportunity to use his name, and it pleases you to see the way his eyes light up when you do. _Good morning, Emmanuel. Thank you, Emmanuel. Goodnight, Emmanuel, sleep well._

Even when you’re alone, you mouth it to yourself, silently — how the _emm_ presses your lips together, and the _el_ sets the tip of your tongue on the back of your teeth. Sometimes if you say his name often enough, you feel almost drugged by it; your eyelids flutter close and your body feels heavy and languid.

 

* * *

Several days go by and although he settles into life with you quickly and easily, he's still unable to remember anything before the day you found him. One afternoon, you sit him at your laptop and show him how to search online. You hope that if he can remember a name or place or anything, being able to look it up will help him recall more. You talk him through the basic details, standing behind him, but he can’t seem to get the hang of the touchpad.

Without thinking, you put one hand on his shoulder and lean over him to demonstrate. Your breasts press up against his back and your face draws in close to his.

And he _freezes_ , his entire body tense. His blue eyes go wide, not with surprise or arousal but rather something else. Panic? Revulsion?

You remove yourself from him as delicately as possible and back away, assuring him if he needs your help you will be just outside in the yard. You spend three hours furiously pulling up weeds and wondering _what the fuck just happened_  until you feel like you can possibly go inside and face him again.


	3. Chapter 3

Something wakes you. The last thing you remember was watching television with Emmanuel, or rather, watching _him_ watch television. You’ve never seen anyone quite so intent, so absorbed, and the funny little birdlike way he tilts his head makes you grin. But _Lawrence of Arabia_ had droned on and on, you swear your eyes closed for a minute but now you wake to find your head resting on Emmanuel’s shoulder.

Lana Turner is talking to Kirk Douglas on the screen but Emmanuel isn’t looking at them; he’s looking at your hand. He’s taken your hand in his and he’s tracing a finger along your tendons, mapping the ridges and valleys of your knuckles. Not knowing what else to do, you try to just keep breathing, slow and steady, desperate to convince him you’re still asleep for fear he’ll stop.

He turns your hand over, thumb running over the lines of your palm and the blue veins beneath the white skin of your wrist.  You feel him lean towards you, nuzzling the top of your head with his nose. His breath on your skin makes your scalp prickle.

As slowly as you can manage, you close your hand around his and almost as soon as he realizes what is happening, his entire body tenses up.

You lift your head to look at him and he’s staring straight ahead, eyes wide, Adam’s apple bobbing furiously in his lovely neck.

 _Oh my god,_ you realize, _he’s... nervous._  The idea never occurred to you before now and you wonder just how much he's forgotten. With your free hand, you stroke his arm, gently, hoping it soothes him.

“It’s okay,” you say at last, “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do.”

His shoulders ease a little and he returns to looking at your hand. You slip out of his grasp, reach up and run your fingers over his hair, reassuring him with a quiet _shhh._ He rests his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes. You decide to press your luck and kiss him, just to see what might happen. When you kiss his jaw, the muscles there tighten, but only for a moment, so you continue. You softly kiss his cheekbone, his temple, the corner of his closed eye.

His eyes flutter open, inky and deep in the dim room. He turns his head towards you, face just inches away. You feel your eyebrows raise, your face asking _okay?_ and he nods, almost imperceptibly. You cup his face in both your hands and rain gentle kisses on his sweet mouth, your tongue flitting over his bottom lip.  When you stop, he puts one hand on your thigh, just above the knee, and squeezes gently. His breathing is ragged, his eyes still closed.

You lean in close to his ear.

“More?” you whisper. He whimpers quietly and nods.

In an instant, you climb into his lap, settling on his thighs but still keeping a safe distance between your bodies. The kiss you give him is a little less soft, a little more insistent. He puts his hands in your hair and his lips part beneath yours. The tip of his tongue swipes at your bottom lip and when your tongue darts out to meet his, his fingers involuntarily tighten in your hair, pulling gently. When you gasp, his hands release. He pulls away and regards you with concern.

“I, I’m...” he stammers.

“No, no, I... it’s okay,” you say. “Here, look.”

You cover your mouth with his and thread your fingers through his dark hair. You nip his bottom lip, playfully, and give his hair a gentle tug. The shock makes his entire body twitch and the noise he makes is guttural, almost feral. You hide your pleased expression by kissing his neck where it meets his shoulder, lapping the tender skin there with your tongue.

You let your hands trail down the front of his body, down his neck, over his chest and stomach, to the hem of his t-shirt. Your hands slip up under the shirt and lay flat on either side of his waist, thumbs rubbing small circles into his soft skin. His muscles constrict under your touch and you steal a glance at his face. His head is thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted slightly.

Emboldened by how at ease he seems, you pull the shirt up and tug it off over his head, his arms raising to help you take it off, as obedient as a child. You back away, climbing off his lap to put your knees together on the couch between his thighs. You take a moment to let your fingers toy with the waist of his pants, resting your hands on his belt buckle, letting the full implication of what you’re about to do sink in.

You lean in and kiss his neck, feeling his pulse pound under your mouth. His stubble grazes your cheek and he breathes a single word into your ear.

“ _Please_.”

You nod. The belt unbuckles with a swift pull. The jeans unbutton easily and the zip opens with a gentle tug. You slide your hand under the elastic waistband beneath, moving down until you find his cock, already hard and thick. He gasps and you grit your teeth in an effort to control your own desires, wanting nothing more than to impale yourself on him, feel him fill you inside. You stroke gently, from the base to the tip, finding the head of his cock already slick. Your thumb slips in his wetness, gliding just under the ridge of his sensitive cockhead. His body is trembling and his breath comes in quiet gasps.

When you withdraw your hand, he whimpers but you reassure him with a quiet shush. He lifts his hips to help you as you take his clothes down, pushing them to his ankles. You slip off the couch with them, kneeling between his thighs, your hands on his naked hips. His eyes travel down the length of his naked body, over his cock, firm and upright and nearly brushing his stomach. His eyes lock onto yours and you reward him with a wicked grin. You turn away and let your lips brush his thigh. You start a trail of tiny, teasing kisses, ending in the hollow where his leg joins his hip. You lick the skin there, salty with sweat, then gently blow on the damp skin, enjoying the reaction it elicits.

Still holding one hip firmly, you release the other and wrap your hand around the base of his cock, drawing it down to meet your mouth. You lap at the head delicately, cat-like, then take just the tip of it into your mouth. His hips buck and you assure him with the steady pressure of your hand. You twirl your tongue around the sensitive head and take him deeper into your mouth while your hand strokes his shaft in a slow, steady rhythm.

His hands are in your hair again but not pulling or pushing you. You realize he’s just drawing aside the veil of your hair that keeps him from watching your face, seeing your mouth on him. The thought of his eyes on you is almost more than you can bear. You want—you _need_ —as much of him inside you as you can get, taking as much of his cock into your mouth as you can, feeling it bump the back of your throat until you are nearly gagging.

The little whimpers and moans he’s been making become louder, urgent, and suddenly, you need to _see_ him, to see his face, to watch him come. As your mouth pulls away, your hand takes over, pumping hard over his slick cock as you climb back into his lap, knees pressing against his hips. One hand grabs him by the back of his neck, roughly pulling his mouth to yours, fucking his mouth with your tongue.

His hips are thrusting his cock harder and harder up into your hand. You break away from kissing him to steal a glance at his naked body moving and it is _glorious_.

“I want you so much,” you pant. “I... oh, God... _Emmanuel_...”

He cries out wordlessly and his body convulses, hot come spilling over your fingers. You keep your hand on the back of his neck, your legs still gripped around his and you ride his orgasm out together, his hips twitching and thrusting under you, until it ebbs away and his head falls forward onto your shoulder limply.

You grab his discarded shirt and use it to clean quickly drying semen off you both before tossing it unceremoniously behind you. And then you lean into him, letting your entire body lay upon his warm skin. He picks up your hand and presses a kiss into your palm, then lays your hand on his chest.

“I told you I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want,” you whisper, finally breaking the silence between you. He laughs softly and kisses your forehead, placing his hand over yours.


	4. Chapter 4

You spend a long time in bed the next morning. Because, did you...   _did you really do that?_ Did that happen? You can feel your face going pink just thinking about it. Was that really you, Daphne Allen?You groan quietly and pull the sheets over your head.

Last night, you’d slipped off his naked lap and strolled to the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water, although in truth, it was just an excuse to let him privately get his pants back on with a minimum of embarrassment.  You walked back into the room just as he was buckling his belt, shirt off, his cheeks still flushed.

“Well,” you said at last, “uh... _goodnight_?”

And without even waiting for a reply, you turned around, walked up the stairs, and went to bed, where you spent at least an hour asking the ceiling _why couldn’t I think of anything else to say?_

What else could you have said, though, really?

_Well? How was that?_

_So... who's ready for another round_?

_Okay, my turn!_

You’re in the middle of reliving the trauma yet again when there’s a soft knock on your bedroom door. You quickly run your fingers through your hair to tame it, quietly cursing the fact you managed to wear a hideous floral nightgown to bed. You snatch a book off your nightstand, open it at random, and tell him to come in.

Emmanuel appears in the doorway carrying a coffee mug.

“You didn’t come downstairs,” he says.

“Yeah, I was just, you know, reading.” You hold up the book in your hand as proof.

“I know you usually put milk and sugar in your coffee, but I wasn’t sure how much.” He looks at the mug anxiously as he hands it over.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” you say. “Thank you.” The coffee is, in fact, so sweet it makes your teeth ache but you drink it gladly and set the cup down. He sits on the bed, looking at his hands, and you sit next to him, shoulders touching.

“So...?” you ask.

“About last night,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” You feel your heart sinking. “Why?”

He looks at his hands, gives his head a little shake.

“I was...” He sighs. "I was _selfish_."

He looks so mournful, you turn away to hide the smile spreading across your face.

“Oh. I...” You look for the right words. “Emmanuel, I... _like_ making you happy.”

He steals a sidelong glance at your face and the corners of his mouth twitch.

“And it’s okay to be selfish,” you continue, “once in awhile.”

You sidle up closer to him, resting your head in the crook of his shoulder, and quietly say, “Maybe next time it will be _my_ turn to be selfish.”

He quietly repeats the words _next time_ almost as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. You bury your face in his neck, inhale the warmth of his skin and exhale a long _mmm-hmmm_.

You stand in front of him and put a hand on either side of his face, drawing him closer to you. You lean in as though you’re going to kiss him but stay just out of his reach, your mouth almost touching his.

“ _Next time_ ,” you say again.

You brush your thumb over his lips and walk out of the room. When you lock the bathroom door behind you, your legs turn to water, all your newfound swagger ebbing away. You lie on the cool tiled floor, half-dazed, just hearing yourself say _next time_ in your head and think about everything that’s going to mean.

 

 

 

 

*  *  *

 

The Millers are having their annual neighborhood barbecue and although you hate it every year, you’ve always forced yourself to go rather than seem unfriendly. This year, though... how are you going to explain the sudden appearance of this man living with you?

With each hour that passes that day, you make a different decision: _I’ll go with him. No, I’ll stay home. Maybe I’ll go by myself.  I could just tell people he’s my date. Or my friend. Boyfriend? Forget it, I’ll just stay home._

You find Emmanuel watching a young couple screaming at each other on a talk show. He looks puzzled, head tilted.

“Daphne,” he asks, as you enter the room, “why does it matter who the baby’s father is?”

“I... what?” You turn the television off and he regards you with the same curiosity.

“Would you, um...” _Oh my god, Daphne,_ you think. _You’ve seen him naked; why is this so hard?_ “The neighbors are having this... thing, party, I guess, tonight. Would you want to go? With me?”  

His expression softens and he nods.

“I’d like that.”

“Good!” you exclaim, relief flooding through you. “I mean, I’d like that too. I’ll go get dressed and then we’ll leave in about an hour, okay?”

He just smiles.

 

 

 

* * *

 

“We don’t have to stay long,” you assure him. “We can just... say hi and then go.” The streetlights are starting to come on. It’s still hard to read his expression in the evening light but his hand is comfortable in yours. You walk that way into the Millers’ backyard together.

The Millers—Allison and Brian—exclaim as they see you, crossing the lawn to greet you with a hug, then regard the man standing just behind you. You lay a hand on his arm and just say, “This is Emmanuel.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Allison says brightly as her husband shakes Emmanuel’s hand. “Let’s get you both a drink.”

She grips your arm as you walk towards the other partygoers.

“ _He’s gorgeous_ ,” she hisses in your ear. Allison has never been any but direct.

You glance over your shoulder to take it all in: the sweep of his dark hair, the aquiline nose, the generous mouth. You smile at him and turn back.

“ _I know_ ,” you whisper back.  

You spend the next hour standing next to Emmanuel, clutching a plastic tumbler of sangria and pointing out the various neighbors you know: the Altmans are the ones with the dog that barks at night, Mr. Morgan is the old man who sits on his front porch most days, the Manning family brought all five of their children but you don’t know any of their names.

Stepping away to refill your glass, you are cornered by Mrs. Santos.

“Daphne!” She always manages to stretch your name into extra two or three syllables. “So? Who is this handsome young man I see you with, hmm?”

You turn back to where Emmanuel was standing but he’s no longer there.

“Uh, Emmanuel,” you say, still scanning the crowd. “His name is Emmanuel.”

“And how you did you meet him?” She steers you to a seat. You can barely see over the folding table laden with food.

“I was hiking by the river and I just sort of... found him.”

Mrs. Santos sighs dreamily. “Love at first sight then?”

“Something like that,” you say.

“So!” She slaps her hands down on the armrests of the plastic lawn chair. “Tell me _everything_. What does he do for work? Have you met his family yet? Does he want children?”

“Mrs. Santos...”

“Please,” she says. “ _Imelda_.”

“Sorry, yes, Imelda,” you say. “Is... is this your chicken adobo I see here?”

It’s a cheap trick but it never fails. This is the third barbecue in a row you have gotten Imelda Santos to tell you her top secret chicken adobo recipe. You know for at least 20 or 30 minutes, you can tune out and relax while she regales you with details: how much vinegar to use, the fights she had with her mother-in-law over the recipe, how much of it her sons can eat when they visit.

You nod and sip your drink and exclaim “No!" or "Really?” a few times, but you’re still searching the crowd. At last, towards the edge of the backyard, you see Emmanuel in a lawn chair, his back to you.

You makes your excuses to Imelda Santos but you are hardly a few steps away when she corners someone else. _Ask about the adobo_ , you think.

“There you are,” you say, coming up from behind Emmanuel. “I wondering where —”

He cuts you off with a shushing noise. In his lap is one of the Manning children, a boy of about 3 or 4, slumped against his shoulder and fast asleep.

“We were having a conversation regarding the life cycle of fireflies and then...” He shrugs and indicates the boy. "I think I failed to hold his interest," he says, frowning.

You kneel on the grass beside his chair and, leaning on your elbows, you peer at the small pink face and the dimpled fat fists, loosened by sleep. The boy’s hair is nearly as dark and thick as Emmanuel's and you smooth it down absentmindedly.

 _He looks like he could be ours_. The thought is involuntary, fleeting, and you push it away immediately with a little shake of your head.

“Oh my God,” exclaims Debra Manning, hustling up the lawn. “I’m so sorry, he just does that. I swear this kid can fall asleep at the drop of a hat.”

She hefts the limp body up to her hip. He seems as though he might protest but settles back into sleep as his mother carries him off.

“Sorry about that,” she says to Emmanuel. As she’s walking away she calls back, “Goodnight, Daphne,” and is gone.  

Emmanuel picks up a Mason jar from where it sat on the grass next to him. He unscrews the top and dips a finger into the seemingly empty jar. He holds his hand out and something like a sunflower seed climbs to the end of his fingertip and flies off. You watch the firefly as it blinks away into the dark, joining the other streaks of light in the dark hedges. Emmanuel gets up from the chair and puts an arm around your shoulders. He strokes the bare skin of your arm and you lean closer to him.

And you realize it’s first time he’s done that, to touch you first. There’s something easy and tender about the gesture and you don’t know if it’s the wine or the sight of the sleeping boy in his lap or the fireflies glowing around you but something in your chest swells and your eyes swim with tears.  

You swallow hard a couple of times and the lump in your throat goes away.

“Let’s go home,” you say.


	5. Chapter 5

You may have had a little too much to drink but that’s not why you’re fumbling with the keys to your door now. Walking home from the Millers’ party with Emmanuel’s arm still around your shoulder, you stopped, put your arms around his neck, and kissed him, hard. He kissed you back in the dark street and you didn’t even care who saw you.

The keys seem to have multiplied in your purse. You can’t find the right one because Emmanuel is brushing his lips against the exposed skin of your shoulder. You jam the correct key in the lock triumphantly and throw the door open.

As soon as you are both inside, his hands are in your hair, his mouth on yours. He presses you into the door behind you. You use both hands to gently push him off. The tip of his tongue darts over parted lips.

“Upstairs.” You’re not asking.  

You’re barely in the room before your shoes are off, and you’re stepping out of your dress, puddled in a heap on the floor. He sits on the bed and you take a minute to make him look at you standing there: your hair undone around your shoulders, your skin white in the dim room.

You climb onto him, leaving no distance between you this time. You need the feel of his body under his clothes but all you feel is rough denim and the cold metal belt buckle on your hot skin.

“Undress.”

He stands and the lean column of his body emerges from under his shirt. You edge backwards to be in the middle of the bed when he joins you and slips under the sheets to meet you.

You press your body against the length of his, breasts pressing into his chest, his cock starting to stir against your warm thigh. He holds your face in his hands kisses your mouth, so slowly and softly, it inflames you more than if he had kissed you as hard as you wanted. He runs his hands over your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. He reaches over to push a bra strap off your shoulder and you respond by unhooking the bra and shrugging your way out of it, flinging it away like something poisonous. He kisses your neck and slowly, almost experimentally, his lips part and he laps gently at the skin there. You gasp at the feel of his tongue. He lays a hand on your ribs, just below your breast, and breathes a quiet _shhh_ against your skin. You draw a shaky breath and try to will yourself to be still.

He strokes the soft skin on the underside of your breast, brushing the curve there with the backs of his fingers. He watches with curiosity as your nipple hardens from just a soft touch from his thumb. He does it again, this time rolling it gently between thumb and forefinger. He looks at your hands clutching fistfuls of bedsheets, your hips squirming. He dips his head to brush his lips against the hard little bud there. When he takes your nipple into his mouth and sucks gently, you bite down on your lip and groan. There’s just the hint of a smile on his mouth and he presses a kiss to your breastbone.

His hand runs over your stomach while your muscles twitch under his touch. His touch is infuriatingly soft on the fabric covering the damp heat between your legs. He slips away to kiss your hip while his curious fingers seek purchase under your panties. You reach down and start to pull them off yourself, but he plucks your hands away and places them on the bed on either side of you. He pets your hands, taming and calming them like frightened birds. You lift your hips to help as he peels away your panties so slowly, the fabric trails wetly down your thigh. His fingers, stroking between your legs, are gentle and inquisitive. His thumb sweeps over your wet folds, tracing a circle around your clit. He gives the firm little nub the same experimental tweak he gave your nipple and you hiss.

“ _Too much_ ,” you manage to say. “Gently.”  

He plants an apologetic kiss in the hollow of your hip and you sigh appreciatively. The tip of his finger continues to explore, stroking up and down until he slides a finger into you, and you feel yourself being stroked from the inside. His hand pulls back and you almost sob at the loss.

“Oh, don’t stop,” you sigh.

He gives a slight nod and slides back into you again. All you can think, all you know, is _more_. You’re not even sure if you said it aloud but he slides another finger into your wet cunt. Your muscles clutch and stretch around his probing fingers as they press into you. Under just the touch of his hand, your entire body is dissolving, evaporating, as a warmth starts to spread under your skin. He leans in and kisses your clit, warmly, softly and you gasp at the feeling of his mouth on you. You pick your hands up off the bed and let them run tenderly over his hair. He kisses you again and again and again, the soft smack of his lips tortuous, and you're trembling, aching, desperate for surrender. 

You feel his lips part and the tip of his tongue flickers over your clit. Your fingers tighten in his hair and your back arches. Spurred on by your reaction, he laps at you, his tongue teasing and yet everywhere at the same time. You’re pushed far beyond the point of being coherent, calling his name and calling out to God and you’re no longer sure there’s a difference between the two, until finally, you come. Release crashes over you, thudding through every fiber, your body still writhing beneath him -- until suddenly it’s too much. With a cry, you pull your hips from his hands and mouth. You’re still quaking and gasping as he climbs back up to meet you and wraps his arms around you. The little after-tremors shudder through you and he tightens his grip until they subside. When your breathing slows, you kiss his wet mouth.

“I think I like making you happy, too,” he says, his face close to yours. You laugh softly and taste yourself in the cleft in his chin.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Does that mean _I’m_ the one being selfish now?” you ask, laying a hand to your heart in a show of false hurt.

You stretch lazily, surprised to find you still want more. Your hand trails down the front of his body to wrap around his cock, giving it a fond squeeze. He presses his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“Well. Can’t have that, now can we?” you say. You stroke gently, tauntingly, marveling at the hardness under the warm silken skin. He grips your hip with every stroke, his hand unconsciously mirroring yours.

You withdraw and slide an arm around his waist, urging him towards you. You draw him in with nipping kisses, pulling him between your thighs, lining your hips up with his. Looking down, you see the head of his cock barely brushes against you. Your eye travels up over his lean body to meet his. He’s looking at you with unease, eyebrows raised, his face appealing: _okay?_

It’s your turn to nod. _Yes, please, yes._

You reach down and guide his cock into you, sinking in slowly, up to the hilt. Your breath catches in your throat, coming in little gasps as your body stretches around him. He kisses your neck and sighs raggedly. He’s trembling with the effort of keeping still, keeping the weight of his body off yours. You shake your head, ashamed at how quickly you’ve forgotten his earlier apprehension.

“Hey, look at me,” you say. You put your hands on either side of his face, feeling the muscles of his jaw tense under your hand, stubble bristling.  

When his eyes finally meet yours, you ask, “Do you trust me?”

His head tips just a little to one side. He says, “Of course I trust you, Daphne.” The sound of your name in his mouth sends a warm flush over your skin and you pull him into a kiss.

“Good,” you say. “I want... what you want.” You rock your hips under him, hesitating, trying to restrain yourself.

“I just... _please_ ,” you murmur against his mouth, unable to think of anything but how it feels to finally have him inside you. “I want this; I want you, _please_ —”

He stops you from saying more by kissing you, hard, his tongue thrusting into your mouth. He draws his hips back and drives into you with a wildness that shocks and thrills you.

At first, he’s graceless, his movements uneven, seemingly unaware of anything but a need to feel his body inside yours. Eventually, he finds a rhythm and you urge him on with _oh yes just like that_ and _don’t stop don’t stop_. You watch his face, entranced; the eyebrows drawn together in concentration, the growling guttural sounds that bare his white teeth. Desperate to feel as much of him inside you as possible, you thrust yourself up, propping two fists under your hips, and wrap your legs high around his waist. He groans and fucks deeper into your cunt.

His head drops and you know he’s watching, admiring the union of your two bodies. Knowing his eyes are on you is electrifying, crackling under your skin then growing, intensifying. You take your hands out from under your hips, almost frantic with a need to touch him. There’s a thin veneer of sweat on his back beneath your hands. His breath huffs as he moans wordlessly _oh... oh..._ against your neck.

He’s fucking you blindly now, every sinew of his body taut and looking for release. You brace yourself under this onslaught, gripping his shoulders with your hands and gripping the muscles inside you around his cock. He’s moaning something, nearly delirious, and with a final, frenzied thrust, he comes deep inside you, shivering and gasping.

Your hips still undulate beneath him, knowing you’re about to come again, but it’s not like before: it’s not hard and urgent, it’s quiet and steady and it spreads out over you like every cell in your body is lighting up, one after the other. There’s a sensation of white light behind your eyes, and your entire body becomes a billion, trillion points of light scattered across an infinite space and you’re terrified you’ll never coalesce back again.

Somewhere, you hear your name being said. Someone is kissing your neck, your jaw, your mouth. Your eyes open. There’s a man with very, very blue eyes looking at you intently, curiously.

“Hi,” you say at last. You kiss him and he replies with a deep, throaty laugh.

“Hi,” he says.

He starts to pull away but you protest. You draw his head down on your chest, just under your chin. Any other night, the weight of his body on yours would be too heavy to bear but instead it reassures you; you’re both still real, still tethered to ground, and you kiss the top of his head in gratitude and awe.

 


End file.
